recycling

It ain’t pretty. This is the ugly underbelly of an improved drought situation here in California. The drenching and quenching rains of the last several weeks have generated an embarrassment of riches: A robust Sierra snowpack 170% of normal. Reservoirs topped off, and then some, with drinking water for the masses. And…a wind-blown scattering of chicken bones and cardboard boxes spilled from overstuffed curbside compost and recycling bins.

Don’t get me wrong, we need the rain. Big time. Our Governor declared a drought emergency back in 2014 — the subject of my 2nd blog post ever, in fact. Here in our little flat, we reduced our own water consumption by waaaaay more than the suggested 25%. My wife and I still bear the psychological scars from the “if it’s yellow, keep it mellow” toilet war that my sons have waged these past three years. I have evidently developed a new phobia associated with lifting a toilet lid to see what horrors reveal themselves. So we as a family are definitely pulling our weight, when it comes to helping out with the drought.

Which is why this morning felt like such a kick in the ribs. Well, a kick in my 10th grader’s ribs, to be precise. I am already burdened by my toilet seat peekaboo phobia. So it’s high time Max cultivates his own debilitating aversions, and the terrors associated with our compost bin offer fertile ground. As it turns out, I’ve covered said terrors in the past, too. So I know of which I write. Long story short, Max was emotionally and physically unprepared for his civic duty this morning. Soaking wet and shoeless, trudging through driving rain and puddles. Perhaps 5 minutes on from being woken up for school (never a fun period of time in the morning). Irked and disgusted by the street spray of our household refuse from wind-blown bins overturned. And harboring murderous ill will towards our inconsiderate upstairs neighbor — she apparently views Max as her new houseboy. Needless to say, Max’s curbside antics this morning are best left forgotten — obscured in the fog of compost war, if you will. Now we are all equally traumatized, it is fair to say. And the snowpack is looking good.

I fully buy-in to the recycling and composting paradigm. I have studied the posters showing me what to compost, what to recycle, and what to consign to a faceless landfill for the rest of human history. I pride myself on demonstrating my earth-friendly knowledge at the local Starbucks’ condiment bar, tossing my used cup in the compost and used plastic lid in recycling, with theatrical flair. I may even make a snarky comment if the patron standing there shoulder-to-shoulder with me does not follow suit.

And God help the Lululemon-wearing nanny who absentmindedly flips a ripped Sweet & Low packet into the “garbage.” Gasp. I might just reach down in there, past the coffee grounds and organic milk containers, up to my armpit now, to pluck out the delicate pink paper and pinch it into its proper end through the “compost” circle. Maintaining laser eye-contact with Lulu all the while, even as I politely hold open the exit door for her with a tight smile. I’ve got my eye on you, Lulu.

I’m committed to this.

The saying goes that there are two types of bicycle riders: Those that have gone ass-over-tea-kettle and those that will go ass-over-tea-kettle. Likewise, there are two types of composters: Those that have had a disgusting, nightmare-inducing experience with their compost system and those that will have a disgusting, nightmare-inducing experience with their compost system.

I fall into the former category.

You see that shiny, confidence-inspiring, metallic compost can pictured at the top of this blog? It looks great, right? Fits in on anyone’s kitchen counter. Looks clean, sanitary, sturdy. Not exactly a shiny Tesla, but surely as iconic a symbol of its owner’s intention to save the planet. Well, Teslas, it turns out, will spontaneously combust from time-to-time. And that cute little compost can packed to the gills with food scraps can be equally evil. No good deed goes unpunished, apparently. Probably serves us right for being so self-righteous about saving the planet. But I digress.

Emptying the compost can in our kitchen is perhaps the least-desirable household chore around here. The kids pretend it’s not there. My wife pretends it’s not there. I use the thing religiously, each tossed-in coffee filter, eggshell or garlic skin making me feel like a really good person. Look at me, I’m saving the planet!

I might as well be stuffing gun powder, wadding, and a cannon ball into a cannon. Jam that stuff in there until nothing else could possibly fit. Then jam some more stuff in there.

I don’t usually bring the contents of the compost can down to the green Recology bin in our garage until I absolutely have to. I know what’s been stuffed in there over the past few days. Or weeks. A couple fruit flies spring free when the can’s top is lifted? Not quite ready yet. The compostable plastic-ish bag has fallen down on one edge, the victim of over-stuffing? Reach down and pull it up a bit, like a reluctant dress sock with its elasticity long gone. That sucker is good for at least a couple more days.

But pull off the lid and spy what appears to be a chicken bone dressed like Santa Clause? Yep, it’s time. Particularly if you can’t recall even making chicken for dinner in the last couple weeks. And especially since you’ve read a bit about toxic spores, mold and such. It’s definitely go time.

If you haven’t waited as long as I do, the process of transporting your little green bag of righteousness from your kitchen down the stairs to the large green bin of righteousness in your garage might go swimmingly. Maybe you’re whistling or even humming while you are saving the planet.

But remember that I have gone over the composting handle bars. There is no whistling or humming or thoughts of planet-saving when you’re in mid-air and turning a flip over your front wheel (to stretch the metaphor a bit further).

A week or so after a little Fourth of July get-together (involving the aforementioned, bearded Santa Clause chicken bones), I had my composting moment.

The cute little green bag burst, evidently pulling one “G” too many as I rounded the corner halfway down the garage stairs. The thing exploded like a bomb, spewing stuff that no longer resembled anything I recognized as ever buying or cooking or serving to anyone in our house. It looked like a blood-spattered crime scene in Dexter. The sheer volume of the contents, splashed on the wall, stuck between the railing and the wall, scattered and oozy all over the carpeted stairs, it was staggering. Almost too much to take. I’m a little light-headed and panicky just thinking about it.

Expecting my wife to be home at any minute, I sprang into action; Harvey Keitel’s “the Wolf” in Pulp Fiction. Just like that. Efficient. Precise. All business. I managed to clean it all up, timely, and no one would have been the wiser had I not decided later to tell the story at the dinner table.

I was proud of myself, self-satisfied, clearly embracing this composting thing, despite having now seen its ugly underbelly. Saving the planet.

Then it dawned on me that in my cleaning, I had deployed about a dozen bottles and canisters of completely toxic liquids, powders, and gels. I threw everything I had at the crime scene. Plastic bags to contain the vile stuff, bleach-soaked wipes removing the final traces of the explosion. And all of it was deposited in the shameful, black trash bin.

I tried to console myself. It was the best effort I could muster in the moment, so consumed with all the dry heaving, swearing and sweating.

Still, I had probably undone a year’s worth of planet-saving composting and recycling activities with those 15 ill-conceived minutes of toxic remediation in my garage stairwell. Oh, if Lulu could see me now.

So like I said, there are two types of composters, and your time is coming….

Thanks for reading.

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